The Red Hatred

Sometimes I feel like I hate you.

A kind of red magma forms inside me, in my chest, and rises to my throat.

In that moment, I want to destroy. I want to grab a plate and smash it into pieces. I want to take scissors and shred that red, sexy underwear I bought to please you.

How is it possible that red is your favorite color? No one loves red that much. Normally, people prefer blue. It’s calmer, more soothing. All my friends prefer blue. I prefer blue. No one but you loves red. Crushing like the burning sun, viscous like blood, red is the color of war, of agression.

Every time I hate you, my father wakes up inside me. I remember his gaze when he was about to hit me. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Go ahead. Do it.”

But he never did. And that kind of situation never happened again.

In truth, no one has ever hurt me, but you.

Every time I hate you, I want to feel your pain. I already do, though. I want you to burn alive inside your fast car. I want you to drive straight into hell, where there are no colors, only blood seeping from everywhere, smelling of rotting flesh. As soon as this image appears in my mind, it terrifies me. My brief scream pierces the night. I want all this fire consuming me to stop immediately. At that very moment, I realize how much I love you.

“You’re a dangerous woman,” says my current lover, suddenly awakened by the noise.

For a few moments, I stare into the black night, forcing my racing heart to slow, then get up to go to the bathroom. I splash cold, blue water on my face, trying to extinguish the blaze.

If you are no longer here, I feel as if I, too, have no reason to exist.

In that moment, I just want you to be happy. I imagine you playing with children in your spacious house, sunlight spilling in, sea waves whispering outside, while your beloved wife makes breakfast or lunch… or whatever. And then it hits me again. The red hatred devours me. When I see you smiling like this, I hate you all over again. How dare you be happy without me?

“You’re a very dangerous woman,” my lover insists.

He compares me to a jellyfish: it’s transparent, like an idea that has yet to take shape, Zen as it flows with the current… and capable of delivering a deadly sting.

You know, this guy… He loves blue, and he is more to me than just a friend. We share something unique, tangible, real. Something you were never able to give me. We may spend the whole night dancing, and then go swimming at sunrise. We’re just good together, from dusk till dawn.

“The sun makes the wind with its energy,” he says. “You’ve got so much solar energy inside you… it produces a mistral.”

He wants me in his life. He wants to have children with me. We really look good together, we could form a nice couple. And yet… something feels off. Deep inside, I know this isn’t what I need.

My lover makes me so happy when we are together, but when I am alone, face to face with myself… I see your gaze. It pierces me, pushes me forward, animates me, breathes vital energy into me. It never lets me settle for less than what I truly need.

I still cannot understand what happened between us. Why did you just leave me alone in the middle of the street with all my belongings, without a single explanation? You simply erased me from your life. It is not understanding that terrifies me. It is not understanding that fuels this burning hatred.

When there’s some kind of lighthouse ahead, even if it’s illusory, it serves as a point of support—or rather, a line on the horizon. The real support is always within, but the horizon line is what the mind clings to, to know where to go. In absolute darkness, in dense fog, the mind descends into agony. It constantly needs to understand, to predict. It cannot exist in uncertainty. It draws pictures from past experience to defend itself, to justify its own existence.

That’s why all the images connected to you — the fire, the burns, the fractures — arise at night. These sinister symbols help me confront the terror of this dark uncertainty. They let me kill off the part of you that doesn’t love me, materialize my anger — which is nothing but fear in disguise — so it can finally be released.

My lover sleeps behind me. Suddenly, he turns and takes me into his arms. I love his smell, his touch, the softness of his skin. But I don’t love him. How is it possible that, after you, no one else makes me feel anything? What's wrong with me?

I tell him that I have my period. That’s a lie, it ended yesterday.

Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting his time, using him… the way you used me. You never really wanted to be with me. You never thought of me as your potential wife. You just wanted to fuck me, guided by this crazy, inexpressible attraction. Right? I’m just not at your level, am I? Too kinky, too crazy, too dangerous, too free? Right?

My God, I hate you again! I never thought there was so much hatred hidden inside me. I’m just breathing, letting it out, layer after layer. Maybe one day I’ll manage to reach the stillness, the silence, that ideal whiteness.

Maybe I’m so into you because you’re not here.

You’re like something unknown, something desirable that I want to possess.

Like that Birkin bag.

No, that’s false. I don’t care about the bag. Unlike you, I don’t “believe in shoes and cars”, as Kanye sings. But I do “believe in shooting stars”, especially in that bonne étoile that protects us, and in the sun above us, which shines and stirs the mistral… before it eventually transforms into a red giant, burning everything alive, just like the fire you ignite inside me.